


My Flesh is a Prison

by Ooze



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Attempted Sexual Assault, Dismemberment, Gen, Gore, Sexual Harassment, V is Not Part of Vergil, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25739506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: “I am wrapped in mortality, my flesh is a prison, my bones the bars of death;”— William Blake’s “Contemplation”
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	My Flesh is a Prison

The air was rank with alcohol and consternation. Wet wood. Humidity. Sweat from bodies packed tightly together in a small space, each one restless and anxious, tense, vexed—likely neglected to wash for days. Somehow taverns had popped up across the city, and no matter how primitive their operation they welcomed the downtrodden _daily_. No man wanted for his liquor during the season of desolation. Voices buzzed all around the one man who sat alone without a glass to drown himself in. No matter how far into the corner he tucked himself, he was mercilessly subjected to the fumes that all but suffocated him. He may have died there that eve were it not for his resolve. There was reason for his presence or he'd not have entered at all—and it was awfully palpable the way in which he was dismissed, ignored, yet simultaneously eyed by animals that did not look or smell or behave like he did. He was quiet at his table, occupying space others would have made better use of. A valueless patron with naught the decency to even ask for a shot of the brown liquid so shamelessly passed around and guzzled by his neighbors. He, so gaunt and pallid and apathetic in his manner, belonged in the hovel in the woodland he'd so seemingly surfaced from. Not here. He was left alone, better off ignored than engaged; not even the modest, silent man tending the bar thought to dissuade him from his seat. But, then, V had come early and waited beyond an hour for the excited shuffling and shifting of men that arrived at last when yet another body squeezed among them. The second he lost sight of the stranger was a fleeting one.

While the men—most were men, though two women were spied standing flush to the wall at the other end of the tavern—were different from him, they were of his ilk; they shared a trade, at least in some small respect, and they'd all been gathered for purposes identical. These people were hungry and desperate and needed money in their pockets. Scavengers, like V, who would flock around a carcass already picked clean for whatever few rotten scraps hung on to the bones. None were here for _proper_ work: they sought illicit bounties. So long as they were armed, foolhardy and starved, they could slay demons. V's situation was not so different from theirs, thus he sat among them and listened attentively to the newcomer with whom rested the promise of work and pay.

What he could expect from this he simply didn't know, and the guarantee that this would be worth his while in the end was one he'd never received from the person who gave him the tip to this place to begin with. An experiment, a gamble, and he was willing to take the risk on behalf of the nagging hunger that plagued him through the past two days. Any longer and he would welcome a fainting spell, and _as it was_ he presently felt feebler than to what he was accustomed. The man who entered was given room and those who watched his every movement had fallen silent save for whispers shared between fellows out of view. V turned his head toward the patron of honor, a stout, unimposing little man with graying whiskers and a receding hairline. In spite of the dim lighting, V could mark grease stains or some such smears over the man's brow, framing his cheeks; he appeared to have toiled night and day and his light-colored clothing wore the evidence of his labor. Surprisingly, he was not poorly dressed like those who surrounded him but wore a sharp dress shirt, waistcoat, and slacks that had seen better days. It said nothing to his station now, but it was likely that he was once a man of means and found himself pressed to wear the only clothes he had left to him. He was fortunate to have survived; the Qliphoth had robbed _everyone_ of the things with which they were most familiar.

Almost pitiable to behold, the poor thing wore the air of exhaustion and a great reluctance to be here, yet out of his pockets were pulled a scrap of paper and a full sheet folded over multiple times. His voice followed before long and it came through in a thick northern accent, gravelly with age, and breathless from whatever work he'd spent his time on. He went on ahead to elaborate on the bounty he had to offer, reading over the sheet with noticeable haste to his tone. His situation must have called for a swift resolution, for it was soon learned that the demon to be hunted had closed on a freshly founded settlement—one to which the pub V patronized now belonged—comprised of survivors and returned evacuees desiring a foothold in a city made foreign to them. V committed to memory every key detail, from the species of the vermin to its distance from human life, and while no man in the room apart from him could identify the quarry they longed to slay, V recognized its physiology from description alone. Experience had him tangle with a number of Hellbats—so named in Nico's reports which he'd the permission to glance over—and he found himself satisfied by all that he'd learned. It was, of course, alarming that such a demon would have come upon the Earth even after the Qliphoth had been cut away, but the only sorcerer in the room wielded the benefit of the upper hand and _he_ would assure himself rights to the bounty.

To be finally unveiled was the sum of the reward, and with its announcement the room turned uproarious. A virtual pittance but good enough for empty stomachs, and in times smacking of desperation even V would throw himself into the ring to lay claim over an easy thousand quid he _needed_. It may as well have counted for slave labor: the man offering his money must not have valued the work that had to be done to earn it, or he'd simply had money to burn—which would have been the most laughable thing under present circumstances. V had heard well enough and pushed himself out of his chair. He stepped up to the edge of the throng, not yet looking to integrate and hoping he wouldn't have to. Swallowed in a moment was every doubt, every concern that rendered him hesitant, but at last he made himself known to all those who'd forgotten him when shortly he raised his voice with remarkable calm. “I'll be taking that.”

He effected a hush to fall across each and every one of his competitors. In near-perfect unison their heads turned, eyes blinking wide when they took in the sight of him. Some were earlier than others in their protest, and when one began another followed, and another, and more and more until they forgot him again and returned to bicker among themselves. But there was mockery mixed in all the hooting from just a handful of beggars who seemed to care more about jeering at him than any present business. The little old man was beset by curious, incessantly pestering animals. Had he even gotten to look at V in the long-lost second of quiet? They were all demanding that he entrust them with the bounty, and it was something miraculous that he hadn't simply _given_ it to any man of his pick—nor that he'd had his documents wrenched from his hands.

What pit so hellish had V come upon where men were turned demoniacal and became as caged animals? An infernal game they all came to play here, potentially at the cost of their souls. V may well have to slay them himself if they were to sprout fangs and horns and scaled hides, and with that a sudden cannibalistic penchant. As things stood, they squawked more like birds and suffered ruffled feathers. Any distaste for this environment previously born was found to augment in an instant. Now V wanted to leave more than persist, and he supposed briefly that he would find paid work _somewhere_ along the streets that would spare him all the dramatics and the discomfort; but such a thought was dashed quickly when the curl of his stomach reminded him that he hadn't the luxury of chance. Virtually without change in his pockets, a fortnight from taking the role of a tramp, he plunged again. Physically now he pushed through, meeting surprisingly less resistance than first anticipated. He was jostled only once before wedging himself among those closest to the newcomer. Now that they were in clear view of one another, though the older fellow paid V no mind, he spoke again directly with the same measured timbre as before, and upon the utterance of his first syllable the voices surrounding paused. “ _I_ will claim that bounty and kill your demon.”

Unwavering, resolute, affixed to the provider of many pounds sterling. For this he tempted the choler of his competitors who'd all thrown disbelieving grimaces his way with foul language to punctuate, but it was the stout northerner with all the power in his hands who gave the unknown sorcerer his due attention. “You want a go at this?” His brow was touched with doubt and equal concern for the character he assuredly viewed as incapable.

“I will surprise you,” V replied, “and fulfill your need all at once.” He drew nearer toward the middle of the space, isolated from the others but now flanked on all sides by their irritated faces. “I have only tonight to give you, and I am the more... _specially_ qualified person in the room.” Without repute, credentials or a physique to convince the skeptics, his hauteur did not go down well with his neighbors and there was at once hostility made manifest in the jeering that began anew.

“You fuckin' joking?” cried one.

“Don't waste it on a fucking _boy_!” howled another.

“What makes you so special?” whined yet another—and another, and another, and…

Where V stood unflinching, ignoring as best he could the insults and opposition, there was an unmistakable sensation come upon him through subconscious alone. Whatever in him that was steel-wrought grew soft beneath the pressure and it was unfortunate that he hadn't the grit to lift his chin high above them all; that he, predictably, did not feel well enough to engage in battle with foes of his species. He would rue his confidence if he hadn't already. With all eyes descending on him, he sensed without error the envenomed glowers of scavengers who looked more and more like they were ready to tear into _him_.

Half of them grinned, however, and preferred to make light of him. They held nothing back and all of their insults were heard before. They _must_ have seen him lose nerve; he shrank a little, _just a little_ , beneath impenetrable, suffocating attention. V darkened visibly, his countenance shaded by the hair that fell to cover one half of his face; and though he made a brave attempt at keeping his focus on the older gentleman before him, he felt the battle lost before he'd even had a hope of success. All the room closed in on him. Had he been among demons, there would not have been a quiver in him—though, in their own right, these people were far removed from their human bloodline. Not even the keeper of the pub had a thing to say in V's defense, though it was likeliest that he stayed well out of the commotion for his own sake. They were all ignored to the best of V's ability, who went on to press their esteemed guest for a decision. “Well? Won't you give me a chance?”

The gentleman hesitated. Given the beads of sweat over his brow, he'd grown hot and apprehensive in the middle of so much hostility. _Tight-lipped_ —he didn't want to say anything.

“I will _prove_ myself.” Impatience, clenched jaws, a frown poorly, _mistakenly_ directed.

“Just that...this sorta work's heavy for a chap like you, innit?”

A round of laughter exploded and there flashed some evident relief across that fleshy countenance. He'd just about stripped away what little dignity remained for the starving fool, rendering him a proper shadow through perceived betrayal and leaving him, a virtual carcass, to the scavengers to finish him off.

At once all around him were hyenas thronged, their cackles relentless and hunger evident in flashes of teeth, and he a solitary buck with his horns snapped off. Out of primal desperation he wore a pathetic snarl, but fangs were for predators and V was all prey. There was resentment in him for this, a sudden hatred born of the abuse he suffered through merciless humiliation. And it was so suddenly that his nerves frayed on this night, his usual cool shattered from only a pinprick when he would brave worse than this and prove to his opponents that he could be twice the devil they'd ever known. But it was fatigue that pushed him where he hadn't wished to go and his hunger that drove the final nail into the coffin. This he could not stand for, and yet he was helpless, powerless, and boxed in by his detractors. They endeavored now to push him out of their way, and those at his back were the ones who'd moved in closest. None displayed even an ounce of fear of that metal stick in his hand.

Hard were his eyes on the old rat, a figure now representative of disdain and V solidly refused to bow out, back away from _him_ , in defeat. He paid no mind to the bodies that drew upon him to force him out, his time here done and his opportunity spent in their eyes. In all the agitation came insult to injury when he felt a deliberate palm on his backside. It snapped him out of his resent-laden stupor, though too late. Sadly, _too late_. All faces blended together when he whipped round in defense of himself, eyes wide and teeth bared, and in his panic, his frenzy and fright he was easily squeezed out of the throng—spat out like a bone accidentally chewed.

No entry was visible nor manageable among the tightened gathering, and even if V _did_ spy another chance he would deny himself the hope. Shunned from the place, he quit it without protest. There was no business for him there and he preferred not to have any more to do with it. His stomach may have complained for that, but its cries fell on deafened ears and it gnawed on numbed tissue by now. There was no better feeling in the world than that of the night air upon stepping out of doors, only it was half as comforting as it should have been. Brisk steps carried his shamed figure away from the tavern with nary a sense of where next to go. His options were reduced to panhandling, essentially, and that was something he'd never done. Disquiet arrested his psyche and he was largely aimless as he went, and in the time he spent putting distance between himself and the tavern, brooding and absolutely voiceless, he never abandoned thought of that touch. That presumptuous, unmistakable gesture which defied every standard of respect. It bothered him more than the softness of his head; the cerebrospinal fluid in and around his brain fizzed as if soda pop.

Like a specter in the night he wandered, and though he walked in a straight line he really did not cover much ground as his pace slowed after the first twenty or so feet. He kept out of sight for his own comfort, seeking some small refuge in the back of a half-built shelter. His demons had not come out to accompany him and a small part of him hoped they _had_. The shame of it was brought lamentably to bear when he found his isolation disturbed by someone drawing up at his heels and giving him a holler. At first glance he knew not the stranger to intrude and prolonged examination did nothing to stir up any memory. However, the general look of him struck V with the impression that he'd come from that tavern which begged for a bout of intense amnesia. Instinct had V tense at the sight of him, a man who must have been a handful of years his senior and was as plain in both visage and dress as any other. But he was inoffensive in the expression worn on a freshly groomed face, and though he carried a hunting rifle over his shoulder and what V could only assume was a Bowie knife sheathed in a holster strapped to his thigh, the fellow did not make any attempts at intimidating him.

When V spied a white piece of paper in the man's grasp glaring at him, however, he soured. _He_ must have been the claimant of that old man's bounty. Insult upon insult to injury.

“What do you want?” V asked sharply, the frown in his brow matching.

“Wanna try being friends first?” the stranger countered with some humor in him. When it was apparent that it held no sway over V, he tried differently. “Listen,” he began as he'd pinched the folds in the paper tightly and incessantly, “I was there, I saw what happened. It was shite. I'm sorry none of those bastards gave you a chance.”

V almost thought to laugh, and he might have if he hadn't held fast to his resentment. He did not believe in his fellow hunter's sincerity.

“I pretty much tore the job away from 'em for that, and the poor sods didn't even see me comin'.” He appeared to be proud of that. “So, since it looked like y' really needed the job, I thought it'd be fair if I let you in on it. Like, split fifty-fifty, yeah?”

“And you... _followed_ me for that?” Surprise, disbelief, _distrust._ V would never count on anyone in that godforsaken room of having a solitary generous bone in their body, and it was with some regret that V thought the same of himself. They were all desperate for coin; who of them would want to share even one penny out of anything they'd hoped to earn? Survival was a game to be selfishly won.

“'Cause I thought it'd do you some good,” it was answered a mite defensively. “I wasn't one o' the arseholes who fuckin' threw you the fuck out of there.”

That much must have been true: V did not recognize his face among those that wounded his pride. He did not move from where he'd frozen, but perhaps allowed his acquaintance a little leeway in terms of conversation. The end of his cane met the beaten concrete to give him some support. “No one is noble for nothing. I can make my own money, besides.”

“Listen,” his company argued, finally giving the paper in his hands a rest as he took on a shade of absolute gravity, “I got a wife and kid. They're expecting me to come home with something. I coulda just taken all this”—he held up the folded terms for V to eye—“back home with me. Outta the goodness of my heart, I'm offerin' you half instead. Maybe I'm daft but I'm not blind. I know the look o' hunger and you wear it fairly loudly, mate.” His hand came down once he was through, again fingering the paper with both hands as before but with markedly less energy.

“What I look like is my business,” the warlock retorted stubbornly. The man before him became an irritant when V should have _pounced_ on an offer he'd likely never receive again. “Take it to your family. I can appreciate your candor,” he said only out of courtesy, “and your goodwill, but I want nothing to do with the old man's money. You're wasting your time with me; the demon will have killed here before you do.” V was set to leave. His foot withdrew as he'd begun to go, but his intent was foiled by the man who'd evolved into a pest in the span of seconds. Before he'd even moved his shoulder away, he was seized by a turn of atmosphere.

“You wanna be the first thing it kills?”

Arrested. A perceived threat and it pulled V's eyes toward the mouth that made it. In place of any dialogue, a glower was his answer, but in the space of all that quiet his stomach decided to ruin him with an awful gurgle.

“That's what I thought.” The man before him was made cocksure by that and went so far as to smirk as though he had all the right cards to play. _Now_ he neared and pocketed the paper while the steps that moved him forward were deliberate. He wanted to size up, _intimidate_ , V and nothing could have been clearer. A mere foot in front of the ghostly man and he stopped, smelling of his vice. “I'm just tryin' to be friendly—'do good unto others', you know. The soul appreciates that once in a while.”

Whether he meant to or not, V moved backward. Whatever facade he'd tried to keep would not hold and it was made evident in the daggers in his eyes, the distance he wanted between himself and the stranger who only pushed his disrespect. Bound demons watched with their sorcerer and he knew he had no reason to fear—but that knowledge did not stop his body from tensing, his heart from racing, and the primordial fear present in all breathing things took hold of his spirit without opposition. And _still_ he tried so hard to endure and to bear the appearance of a grown man with control of his own. V did not like to discover that this creature was an inch beyond his own height and was built as though a manual tiller of soil. Armed to the teeth, too, with a blade readily accessible to him should he go wild. V's cane was pulled clear off the ground. “I want nothing from you,” he hurried to say, “so, please. Whatever you want, find it elsewhere. I'm not afraid—”

But he was, made _horrifically_ so when realization and reality stung through the spine to finally open his eyes, and all at once his facade shattered in pieces all around him when an unwelcome hand rose to brush the ends of black hair; and, in the stead of his last ounce of composure, came alarm and disgust and a sudden aggression that was very much unlike V, but he took to the alteration just as if it were natural of him. The eyes widened, pupils dilated in an instant, a snarl took form and he snapped his head away in rejection of the proposal _he knew_ already floated in the degenerate's mind. He sprang backward, barked a command to be left and brought up his cane to hold the man at bay, but as if his limbs were straw he was easily conquered. Employed against its master, the cane was jerked toward its foe and subsequently pulled V nearer to him. God damn that fiend's possessive grip!

“Relax! I wouldn't harm a hair on that head o' yours,” it was asserted in direct contradiction to the actions that followed; for with no effort spent the villain wrapped an arm around a narrow waist while a clamp of iron seized V's wrist to subdue and thenceforth disarm—as marked by the inevitable clatter of metal upon concrete. Through this and nothing more he was immobilized and rendered ineffective. The hand over his wrist sped for his mouth now to silence him, and the mortification of a useless, muted plea that followed was more excruciating than any death he'd suffer. Hastily he clawed for his voice, and for his efforts he was patronized. “We don't wanna wake anybody up, hell no.”

His heart was in his ears. He may have heard better if his blood did not dash against the veins that held them. V, without knowing him, _knew_ him—knew his hands, remembered the one that groped him earlier in the night, and he became manic and his pallor flushed white with terror; he shrank from the beast, avoided hungry eyes by shutting his own, but his body was too lean to be useful and he in too close proximity to move as he wished.

“ _Shh_. Just look at me, listen—I think I'll let you take the bounty, _all_ of the thousand if you give me an _inch_ first. Or two, three...” Disgustingly smarmy in manner and voice, the nameless villain laid bare every intention as though he had the right to the bargain. Typical of his kind to ignore the hand that pushed back, clawed for freedom, thinking it only _cute_ and gaining from his prey's rebellion a twisted sort of arousal as evidenced by the gleam in glazed eyes. “You could get away with murder lookin' and _soundin'_ this good. Those guys had no right treatin' you like shite.”

As if he would have been any better.

V's own flesh felt repulsive to him in monstrous clutches. He knew no desperation like this and wanted only to distance himself, but things being as they were—that hand firm over his mouth and his body pressed flush to another—he was even unable to turn his head away, unable to avoid unwanted breath fanning his face and the subtle graze of a nose against his cheekbone. Beneath closed lids his eyes stung hot and even this he suspected he would be deprived of in little time yet. He would not let that beast reap the satisfaction of looking at tearful, wide eyes. He shan't let him have that, no matter what form of retaliation he asked for through silenced inaction. There were murmurs in his ear that stoked his every instinct to run; he was unaware of the whine that slipped free of his throat in response to the nauseating sensations running all throughout his frame. To pretend that he did not hear one word of it was his endeavor, but how could he ever fool himself so well? Efforts repeated now as when he waited in the tavern, repeated as when he would go anywhere and catch the eye of any savage beast, man or woman, like the creature who accosted him this night; history either distant or recent would repeat. He'd known this. It hurt him worst of all, perhaps, that his knowledge never saved him before hands would come upon him, or whispers would warm his ear, or a whistle would reach him across a vacant street. And it wasn't as though he was plagued by this, no, this was not his life but a _part_ of it. Infrequent, yet experienced nonetheless. There, possible, unprompted, tangible, and he hadn't a choice but to take his chances. As with devils, so with humans.

His one comfort was that he would never face the world's dangers alone. The beast who'd shushed him to peel him away from where he'd frozen had neglected to take note of pallid flesh turning paler from the shedding of ink. It was in the dark of night that shadows gathered beneath V's feet. Tonight there would be blood on _hi_ _s_ hands, and momentarily the leak would spring. The time for subtleties died the instant unwelcome hands were brought about the warlock. The black that pooled around his feet gathered mass and form and when the essence of her life touched his consciousness, his retribution had come in the span of a hurried breath; snapping fangs; a bone-chilling scream—and he was freed, freed at last! Eyelids flew open when the slightest pressure lifted from his frame, a gasp for air following as his eyes watched human slime spill onto the concrete.

Shadow conquered him without expenditure; he'd done himself worse for having landed on the rifle at the back of his shoulder; and another cry, and the sound of something not quite bone _cracking_ , was the insult to injury duly deserved. His terror would not let him make a useful grab for the knife he must have desperately wanted. The demon gnashing through cloth and dermis permitted the free flow of blood from the shin she, with fervor and tenacity, fixed upon. Claws like hooks dug into his hip and grasped, tearing deep into flesh already ablaze with pain. For every inch destroyed, cries grew louder and more pitiful. The monster was blinded by his anguish, _all_ a result of his miscalculation, for if he had only yielded to better judgment earlier in the eve, he would not have to lose his leg. Flesh rent, blood painted concrete and fur, miserable yowls struck nerves all around and V witnessed it all in more clarity than he perhaps wished to. His eyes were wide and wet, his body remarkably upright but quaked from the intensity of the ramming of his heart against his bones. To see demons torn to pieces and charred alive was quite a different thing from the destruction of a live human body—and V was against it, always against it…

But justice, _justice_! Morals be damned when no one spared him theirs.

The ripping of cloth was nigh inaudible amid all of Shadow's vocalized fury and the inhuman shrieks of her prey. Not even a jaw full of meat, yet all the same muscle and sinew were peeled from the tibia and there beneath a coat of liquid crimson the bone peeked out for all to see. If her master had not forbidden her, she would have taken the flesh for her refreshment. But this injury was not sufficient reparation. The flesh in her mouth and a piece of torn pant were spat out before she dove for the bone, giving no quarter when pathetic howls threatened to deafen even her. If Shadow could easily decimate thick-skinned Nobodies, ripping into a human limb was kitten's play. Maw, muzzle and most of her face earned a bright staining of red what with the metallic-tasting fluid spilling and spurting whenever she would breach the soft tissues in her clutches. It was finally time for the tibia to crack.

Fangs bore deeply, _crunched_ distinctly, and with the marrow on her tongue she salivated—but she was focused, cared only for her master, and for him pulled the broken bone from its adjoining neighbor. There was suddenly half a human leg between her jaws and she, indifferent, discarded it. Loss of limb resulted in hysterics for her prey: the fear of God took hold of him as though he remembered his Christianity. He bled freely and cried as loudly, and the knife that was his only available means of defense was now totally useless to him. Shadow watched him writhe, wail, gasp unintelligibly for life—and he'd have that. She took some small pleasure in the sight, but it was the knowledge that she'd done right by her master that fulfilled her most of all. Though she snarled, she stilled. The utterance of her name assured that she remained tame, but were it not for respect for V's command, she'd have done much more. As it was, the croak of her master's voice told of _something_ , and it was made clear when she moved aside prior to his intervention.

V, armed again, was not unlike a devil with so diabolical a maddened fever come upon him, and without the benefit of reason he swayed to the hammer of his heart. Fast, he stepped in between one whole leg and one halved and, snarling like his shadow-born beast, caught horrified eyes that dared not blink away. Hesitation had no space here. All at once the cane struck the concrete between the creature's knees, fatally close to the family jewels as nothing short of a clear threat of castration. V had hatred in bleary eyes that blazed, and between clenched teeth he hissed, “You're not dead because I'm not a fucking _animal_ like you! What life you have left you'll _beg_ someone else to save! You did this to yourself!” A form of just desserts. Only now, when V held all power in _his_ hands, could he expose eyes he'd previously wanted hidden; _now_ they would be seen, piercing and menacing, _now_ were they the stuff of nightmares meant to haunt the vile animal for as long as life would be fair. He'd almost broken into sobs, though tears did stream down his face in surest spite of the threatening appearance he wanted to keep.

That worm, that scum who'd soiled himself where he was mutilated thrashed in wanting to scramble back, seemingly unaware of V's emotional torment for he had not a disgusting or retaliatory thing to say—not that he was able—but sputtered and moaned unintelligibly while all across his visage was the pallor of half-death. _He_ sobbed. Where had all that bravado gone? Shadow stripped it away, all the swagger and the flesh, and beneath her ruby reds human filth was only filth; carrion, unfit for consumption. She only now noted the once-coveted paper peeking out of a torn pocket, and though V nor Shadow held any interest in it, it was plucked free regardless by the newest demon to have joined them. So much an opportunist, Griffon manifested in an instant and stole the paper, and he jeered about the loss with the spoils in his talons.

It was unrealistic to expect that their prey would move, that he should even live much longer. As he dulled in a puddle of his own making, V staggered backward in a feeble attempt to distance himself from the creature he wanted to be worlds away from. Irony was cruelest when he couldn't tear his eyes away, and for the time being he wanted nothing more than to lose his sight. He'd surely lost all menace when he stood across, nearly petrified and useless as he shook from nerves that had begun crashing _properly_. His distress may not have been outwardly perceptible, but Shadow understood him intimately and knew that he sought refuge. Following a flash of magenta across her pelt, she melted into shapelessness and enveloped her master's legs in the whole of her liquid body. She spirited him away from the scene and, with her friends, faded into the darkened streets that had yet to see any maintenance.

She did not take him far. Not even a mile down the next street before she turned behind the remains of a petrol station, anticipating that V would falter before long—and he _did_. The instant she regained form and left him to stand on his own legs, he rather fell gracelessly on his derriere. Whatever little strength he'd tapped into that kept him standing and snarling had all depleted now. His cane crashed with a clatter as his hands failed him and he made no effort to retrieve it. The collision suffered went ignored, numbed by the sensations in his skull, viscera, and soul. He shrank, closed up within himself as his legs drew up and his arms curled about his knees. His brow pressed to the arm nearest, and shut up like a clam he hid even his face away. Every breath, in and out, was an effort, fast and shallow, heard by companions who watched within feet of him.

That sensation in his gut wasn't hunger, wasn't pain, but nausea. If he were at all put together, he may have been better able to quell it. But V breathed hard, _sobbed_ , sniffed up the fluid teasing his nostrils. Somewhere amid the inhalations his voice seemed as if to peek through, weak and frightened and not quite distinct—attempts at a sentence, or even a mumble. He was not unlike a whimpering little animal. Strands of black swayed when he appeared to shake his head, then again came his voice and this time, though with a quaver, spoke. “H–How is that...ever a f–fair bargain…? How”—he interrupted himself to swallow—“could he want— didn't even— he just, just…!” Emotion overwhelmed him and he choked on it. Lids squeezed tight but leaked nonetheless, sinuses filling all at once to do his air supply even less of a favor. To no avail, he inhaled sharply to clear the passage. In the face of his failure, he worked his tongue. “How could he expect— expect me to—?! No amount of money is w–worth _that_!I'd rather starve to death!”

The thought repulsed him more _now_ as his mind unraveled to horror him with potentialities he'd never invited into his psyche. But all the same it effectively sickened him. Still he felt that arm around his waist, that hand to his mouth, and suddenly more came upon him; phantoms maybe, but he thought he felt them all about his body and it made him _loathe_ with an intensity unmatched. It made him loathe _himself_ , his skin, everything that made him the littlest bit desirable to wolves whose eyes gleamed at him. What was V to them but a piece of meat? Scant, but meat, and carnivores did enjoy gnawing on the bones. He didn't understand it fully but hadn't wanted to. All he knew for certain was that he felt ill, his stomach sought to evacuate, and he hadn't will nor strength enough in him to fight his own body. “I feel sick,” he told his demons, his voice carrying the quality of an effort made to close off the esophageal passage.

“No, V, come on now. Get a grip over yourself—you don't wanna do that,” Griffon cautioned, though he may as well have spoken to a plastic bottle. Though he cared genuinely for the well-being of his master, V appeared _not_ to and flung himself into convulsions.

Haunted and powerless, he had nothing left to him and so resigned himself to retch pitiably on the ground not even a foot away, took to hands and knees while his esophagus pushed out whatever his body could spare. As expected, he had bile to spit up and nothing else. His stomach had not an ounce of food left in it, and the sudden exertion may as well have ruined him entirely: his body shook, his eyes stung and his nose ran and his muscles turned to jelly. He might have heard the groan of a demon, but he hadn't the mind for it. If he had not some little strength of will, he'd have collapsed over his mess; but he backed away, sat again and grimaced at the taste of his own mouth. He didn't want to wipe himself clean with neither his hands nor his clothes. Faint now, though V did not yet give. His tongue lapped endlessly at his lips while each inhalation was a loud, hard drag of air. He may not have known it, but hunger was more to blame for his nausea than anything—though it _all_ played a part, ultimately, in breaking him down. Acids in his gut, gooseflesh all across, thoughts left unspoken. So _criminal_ a sense of self-loathing, born within mere minutes. No one in the world but V would understand his self-directed disdain and why those feelings were all the more intense than those for the creature who'd seen him as prey.

Yet, because he was stubborn or undecided or needy, he would air his grievances to his only audience, and to claim he had a choice in this moment would be in error. A man who could hardly move, who would crumble if the slightest wind brushed him, who'd lived on the verge of total collapse and had no doubt his mind would go dark before the night was through—he had but his grief and his company, so he would take them. The poor thing rendered himself dehydrated beyond any standard he'd set before. The devil in him hung on, however, much to his insincere reluctance. For all the wishing he did that he would drift into unconsciousness, he was afraid to. Not the kind of man to seek his own misfortune, after all.

But it would find him, wouldn't it? It had, it _almost_ had, and still it might. V wanted to draw his legs up but the mood to move was sapped from his soul. He sat half alive with his beasts round. Hunched and small, countenance dark and sick, the whole of him hidden and now, suddenly, cloaked by Shadow. Even she would not have his attention, but it wasn't sought. Her breath was warm over every inch of skin she scented, but her every attention was that of a caregiver—mild and preoccupied. She betrayed all her kin for this, but they'd all been damned by her the moment she left to nurture a boy. Her muzzle nudged his arm and through his silence he offered a shaky limb; V was aware, held his hand out to her, and welcomed a habitual lick of his palm. Such was meant to soothe him, always had, but tonight had been harrowing for him. The familiarity of the gesture was in itself a superficial comfort. Shadow understood this and did not bother more than she needed to. She tended to his face next, lapped at his mouth to clean off the residue of his vomit, and though V wanted nothing of her tongue on his face he put up only little resistance. He did not forget that she tore into human flesh minutes ago, the smell still strong on her coat with blood fresh. What could he say about her tongue? He accepted it regardless. He accepted _her_ —and his hand was quick to seize her by the nape before she withdrew. Though he was strong of resolve, his muscles paled; but Shadow understood him too intimately to fail him, and so she sat by her master's legs at his quiet request.

But he needed her closer. He tugged, she leaned forward, his arms draped around her and he hugged her as tightly as his bones would permit. All at once his emotions surged, he buried his face in black fur, and tears flowed again. He needed her or he would die—he would have _long_ ago were it not for her, for _all three_ of them. Had he been any other man, he wouldn't have enjoyed his present fortune. It was a thought that did not belong, but to spite himself he thought it, he wondered: What would have happened if he did not have any one of his demons by his side? Without his _help_ , what could he do? Inconsequential, a burden on others and it had been that way since his first breath.

Now he feared he might die, he rather thought it might have been better to. He'd very nearly wished for it when he was in abominable clutches. He was starving and sick, and in spite of his loyal familiars...he felt lonely. Damned lonely. Pity was in itself pitiable, and V committed treason against himself for lamenting his lot. No one chided him for it. Not for anything. Griffon said something to the effect of his master's dehydration, but V wept through it and didn't rightly care. He'd found some strength, perhaps from his own grief, with which he tightened his hold, pulled his demon to his chest, and indulged himself in his pain as though he had the luxury.

“I'm so useless,” he whined. “I can't do anything.”

“V...”

“I hate it. I just _hate_ being this way.” His voice was that of a child's, cracking and quavering without effort put into taming his sobs. Out of some confounding desire to muffle himself, his lips pressed to Shadows' jowl. But he moved his mouth from her anyway when he spoke. “So weak, so powerless and... _pretty_ that I— I can't be taken seriously! It's always the same!” His emotions wracked his body, wrung his throat, choked him on his tears, and with them stained and burned his face. But there was something liberating in grief, and V chased after it, riding on the belief that he had nothing left. “I'm too useless to even...defend myself. If neither of you had been there, I...might— might have given in. I just might have! Or… _I don't know_.” Realistically, what else could he have done? How far could he have run? So faint, so vulnerable and he _knew_ his chances. And he would have rather died.

Like a baby he sniveled, holding on to his familiar for dear life. Not a soul in the world was there, not a human soul truly _cared_. No one would come to his rescue, not now or ever, and if he would drop off the face of the Earth he knew it would go unnoticed. And maybe it would have been best that way. But he did not think about the end of his life nor did he reflect on those who were not present. V had no _need_ for anybody. Solitude was preferred—he knew no other way. Shadow shifted to lie over his lap to grant them both greater comfort, and with that done his arms slung around her neck and he pressed a soggy cheek to her crown. As long as he had her, and Griffon and Nightmare, he would never be _too_ alone. If he could not have, nor trust in, others of his kind, he would instead rely on those _infernal_ to give him company and courage. It seemed to him now, though his judgment was warped, that there were less demons who sought to harm him than there were humans, and that was a sad state of affairs. “I just...can't believe there are humans... _worse_ than demons…!” Between sobs he spoke, his dizziness and hunger be damned; he would not stop himself from airing his woes. He saved his voice, instead sobbing for several minutes without a sound round him save for that of his crying fit.

Not a peep heard from the most talkative of the bunch. Either he'd given up on consoling his master, or he kept his tongues out of respect. But before him he saw a man reduced to a puddle, crying his grief away in such a manner that impressed the raptor with a sense of familiarity. He'd seen this before, only a _boy_ hugged himself then. Just as then, Griffon was his quietest. But only for so long: his concern for his master's health kept him on relative edge, and the document he stole earlier may yet serve a purpose. But V, poor V, deteriorated emotionally and his body followed suit. This was plain and he didn't appear to care.

As life would take a page from history, V was as the child within that refused to grow up, and he sat miserably on beaten concrete as though he again sat in mourning for the mother he'd lost all those years before. But here he mourned _himself_ , his lot (as if it were something new to him) even though he'd known, and it did not take clairvoyance to figure out, that nothing would change; his life was as it had been since his earliest memory. Nothing was _lost_ tonight. Rather, the gains were punishing and dejecting. He mortified himself, shamed himself, simultaneously loathed and pitied himself. There was naught to do but cry over it. If he were healthier, he'd cry well into the morn; to cry for his luck, to cry for his _crying_. Both nose and eyes were red and runny from the grief that poured forth. He used the backs of his hands and his forearms to wipe his nose pointlessly; it would drip on and on until he'd have no fluid left to spare. This was what he could do, good for little else. His only talent exhausted him, anyway.

The devil within him was cruel in the way that it led his mind to remember a night that was among his worst. The guilt he'd felt then was sharp and searing, when it seemed like the world collapsed all around him upon avenging his wrong—but he'd never made it right. The heart, the _spirit_ burned as if split open by one hundred lashes then, and V felt quite the same now. He remembered crying his eyes out, curled tightly into himself with the smell of charred hide revolting his senses while he wished and _begged_ for a second chance. To go back to that evening he'd summoned the killer—but he'd known he'd never get it. He'd known it was all over, that _everything_ had changed. And most of it had, save for him.

Here, now, was a man in his thirties, living through that child's anguish all over again, only now over something new along with the baggage he'd carried for years. Always so infantile, so fragile, _attached_ even to memories. Even those that were painful. Perhaps it couldn't be helped, but remembering rarely did him favors. Thinking back on adolescent behavior stirred up more self-loathing: in memories, he saw himself as he'd become. He was the same foolish, pathetic, helpless imbecile. Age made no difference. He would have been mocked now if there were passersby, likely made their prey if they were scavengers; hooting and hollering and howling at him to stop crying, to _grow up_. If he had any money, he'd have wagered that to be the case. The streets were presently unoccupied, however, and so he was left to reasonable peace, to grieve and embarrass himself alone. But the words whispered in his ear were unyielding whenever he tried to turn his memory from them. And he remembered each one, _how_ they were said, the voice that spoke them—he bristled from the thought of it. Teeth were bared fruitlessly, arms tightening around Shadow's frame as the warlock whimpered and refused a phantom. In mild weather there was somehow a chill that seized him; he was cold, sick from top to bottom and felt all manner of flame in his eyes, throat and stomach with the added aches and dizziness that came with bodily neglect. Out of liquids, possibly out of time, and still the wounds on his heart earned more focus than the condition of his body.

Nothing had happened to him, in the grand scheme, and yet he felt defiled. Filthy hands grabbed, filthy ideas painted mental pictures he never intended to see. What could he have done? He'd lost his cane, his only tangible means of defense, in the middle of the struggle. It was an ugly truth to face but V knew it better than he'd known any: without his familiars, he was the easiest meal. That the carnivore be demon or _man_ did not even matter, and that stung him deeply. Deeper than _anything_. All the guilt in the world could not have convinced him to despise himself _more_. Of that, at the moment, he was certain and even with a head full of fog he would be inhumanly stubborn about it. There was no shred of regret in him for having caused dismemberment. For all the hurt his life had inflicted on him, he could afford to return just an ounce. Though the scales were tipped disproportionately away from his favor, he would have at least a thin slice of whatever justice remained.

But it was so, so paltry to him. He hadn't any gratitude for revenge just as he hadn't gleaned any satisfaction. There was no liking in him for all of the human gore he had to stomach; his psyche had broken and such a thing was so much _harder_ to repair than torn sinew and crushed bone. It _all_ made him sick. If he had any fluids left, he'd have vomited again. Behind closed lids he thought of the blood and the tissues, in his ears rang screams and wails he remembered had sounded inhuman—and Griffon's voice cut through the torment to remind him that he'd been deteriorating. He mumbled something into Shadow's fur, but it may as well have been an infant's whine.

“You're not gonna make it like this! Are you hearing me? Damn it, kid, stop crying!”

_Get over it._

V pulled Shadow closer as though there existed any space between them. He didn't want to hear it, to suffer censure like a little boy would. Griffon could have had the decency to mind his feelings, but what was a man to expect from a diabolical thing? “Leave me alone,” he whimpered. So reluctant to mature. If only he'd step outside of himself, consider _other_ points of view, he might have understood Griffon's tone. Set in his ways as he was, V rather preferred to close himself off.

As tenacious as his master, the demon refused to fold. But he tamed his temper to reach a wounded man. “Look, I get it. It was a shitty thing, but you got out of it. _Nothing_ happened, V. But if you keep ignoring all the signs your body's givin' you, something _is_ gonna happen. You gotta relax. Come back so we can get after that demon and get you fed—”

“I don't want _anything_ to do with that!” V resembled a feral thing when he growled in counter. Even if briefly, he pulled his head away to snap at Griffon. He felt contempt for the suggestion, but worst of all was his sudden contempt for his own friend and the fact that he'd stolen the document that lay at the heart of V's trouble. With his sinuses properly congested, he inhaled sharply in a futile bid to clear them. The poor thing was all red where skin was normally pallid. Never had V looked so pathetic, not even when a demonic blight was cast upon him. He fought tooth and nail, constantly, and this is where it brought him. Good or bad, no one knew, but he survived. He survived vagrancy, he survived his health, he survived loneliness, he survived the Qliphoth, and Urizen, and every hostile threat to his existence.

And now he was faint and nauseated, aching, on ice and on fire all at once. There was within him a desire for forgiveness, suddenly, after dwelling on the way he refused his familiar's _good_ sense. But he was, it must be said, too much of a child at the moment to utter words of apology. Hiding his face once more, he pressed his cheek to black fur and faced no one. Sniffling and unresponsive, he wondered what his mother would have thought of him in that moment. He shouldn't have, but the mind was oft a terrible, roaming thing. Would she have chastised him for going where he shouldn't? Would he have _shamed_ her for his uselessness? To beget predatory behavior because of his ineptitude? Would she have blamed herself for the product of both her labors and of his environment? She was the only one to have raised him after all, but… _No_ , it was _his_ fault! _V_ had made these choices—it couldn't have been _her_! He was a grown man now, responsible for every decision and thought and feeling, and he would sooner _damn_ himself than ever place the blame on his own mother for what had happened tonight.

Too much was already done to her in life to, now, desecrate the poor woman's memory in death. The worst thing her son had done was kill her, but to fault her for his sorry luck would have beaten all. Grief renewed, he closed his eyes to welcome a fresh wave of tears. Where they came from it couldn't be said, but they were likely his last.

“All right,” said Griffon, his tone one of controlled anxiety. He didn't bother over V's treatment of him. “You stay put, I'm gonna go find something for you to eat.” There were still people to rob and a rudimentary convenience store near that closed at nightfall, easy to break in to. “Shouldn't take me long. Just—for the love of anything, _hang on_ , kid.” He received no farewell when he parted from his companions, abandoning the pilfered document along with their prior plan. Shadow watched him go, having elected not to direct him in any fashion.

V was her concern and for however long the moment would last, she would bear with him, _beside_ him, and guard him as if he were her cub. This had been the way of things since the beginning, truthfully; but with he in so poorly a state, Shadow would comfort and protect as if _both_ their lives depended on it. She was still as her master clung to her frame. Suddenly he was voiceless, inhaling markedly but softly while he stifled his lamentations. If he dared to speak again, he knew it would come out indistinctly. The fool spent his last, drained of fluid and of strength, and his brain felt so _soft_ that he would have lost all footing if he'd not already been seated. It was unfortunate that his ills were self-inflicted; now he chastised himself for being the idiot to blame all along, but his mind was too loose to think coherently and his eyelids too heavy to open any longer. How he remained conscious was a wonder, and with what little awareness he had left he desired simply to return home. Nothing more he wanted than to crawl into his bed and sleep for days. He wanted to forget this, to simply wake up hungry again—to do it all over, really, and make better choices the second go-around. But he knew he wouldn't have that; history had shown him that he never did. V was a simple man of low expectations. So little disappointed him anymore, yet _still_ he wished for this night to end. With whatever strength lingered in emaciated arms, the warlock tugged on the demon holding him upright in a feeble effort to gain her attention.

“Shadow,” he barely whispered, “I...want to go...home.” The wretched man could hardly speak! “Please, home...”

He was denied, received not even acknowledgment, and while he awaited her response in a quiet most tense, there came a wailing of sirens in the distance. Someone must have come across the mess he'd left behind—but what followed in the span of seconds was the echo of a gunshot and a demonic shriek to pierce the air. Had _that_ begun as well? V should have remembered that a Hellbat neared, and with such a danger _wild_ in the area, he too could have easily become its prey. What would otherwise have been shrugged off was _feared_ tonight. Nervous, he rocked his familiar's frame. “Shadow,” he repeated in reminder. From her he only caught a rumble in her chest. There was too much noise near them all of a sudden: the sirens stopping close, firearms waging war against an embittered demon—and Shadow would dare to endanger her master by stranding him so close to it all?

If V could only pry into her mind, he would know what she sought. But he was ill and fading fast, and more than _home_ he needed _sustenance_. Such was the point of their entire day, and now there was a chance he could have it at last. It was in his best interest to stay and wait for their comrade, even if it resulted in disobedience from her and desperation from the warlock she served. Griffon would have found something and V be better off for it. Alas, that was too little too late now. The weight of his body fell fully over her, one arm slipped free, and he blacked out without a fuss. Alarmed, Shadow moved aside to allow him to slide off. His shoulder absorbed the impact, but it would have gone unnoticed anyway. There was suddenly an unconscious man before her, and should Griffon come now they would _both_ find themselves with a problem greater than they'd anticipated. As it was, it did not look favorable for demons to crowd a body limp and starved. Try as she might to rouse him, Shadow's tongue only worked to wet his face. Now it would be up to Nightmare to cradle his subconscious.

Blocks away were paramedics, tending to the injured and carrying off the dying. V would _hate_ it, but if it would save him...he would be brought forth.


End file.
